


Papercuts

by forver-vespertine (TwentySevenSorceress)



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Crack, I Don't Even Know, I cannot stress how much of a crack fic this is, I regret everything, I'm Sorry, Implied D/s, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, My only solace is that worse than this exists, Other, Political Satire, Politics, Press briefings, Really sexy healthcare policy criticism, Satire, Sean Spicer being Sean Spicer, Warning: Donald Trump, Yes the ACA is a character, paper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwentySevenSorceress/pseuds/forver-vespertine
Summary: Sean Spicer is more dishonest than the allegations of Barack Obama wiretapping Trump Tower.He is filthier than the partisan aims of the numerous taxpayer funded Benghazi committees.He is more confused than a TSA agent after the implementation of the Trump Administration’s first Muslim ban.Even so, Sean Spicer is more screwed than the Unites States of America.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Do I have an explanation for this existing? Well, I read through the 2017 executive orders in one sitting, was generally angry about the state of United States politics, and a friend(who essentially only posts crack fiction) offered a sort-of-prompt… Sean Spicer/Stack of Paper. With D/s undertones. 
> 
> I would not be capable of devising such a premise myself. 
> 
> Someone was going to do it someday. And yes, I'm aware of how creepy the prompt is. Catharsis is imperative to the mental health of the oppressed. Or something like that.
> 
> Disclaimer: The timeline here is slightly off- I know Spicer didn't hold a press briefing between the AHCA being rewritten and the AHCA failing, I know that the events referenced overlap oddly and do not directly correspond to reality. This is for irony. Also, completely and utterly crack fiction, a total joke (but not as much of a joke as the United States right now, I’m not that good)

 

 Sean Spicer was tired.

It was as though he was a sheet being worn thin by the whipping wind as time wore on, growing more fragile and weary with every wretched day that dragged past, slow as societal progress under a Republican government.

Misery and regret clouded his life, every day he pushed himself onto that stage to be viewed by the throngs of reporters buzzing with frantic questions about frivolous things- such as the future of democracy or the robust state of governmental corruption. He just couldn’t catch a break, could he?

Sean steadied himself on the rickety stage, gripping the sides of his podium tighter than Donald Trump had gripped his daughter’s hips at the Republican National Convention. His knuckles turned white with stress, and he felt the heated suffocation of so many sets of eyes resting upon his carefully expressionless face.

“Mr. Spicer, Mr. Spicer!” shouted a reporter, waving from the front row of the press briefing room. Sean took a deep breath, and braced himself for the onslaught. He pointed at the young journalist and nodded curtly.

“The Republicans complained about the Affordable Care Act being rushed through Congress,” she began, voice energetic and hurried, “and yet, the American Health Care Act is being rushed through in a fraction of the time, with little constituent input- does this strike you as glaring hypocrisy?”

Sean fixed the woman with a glare livider than a non-sociopathic human being after reading Donald Trump’s recommended budget plan. “Obviously, there is no hypocrisy, and it is frankly appalling that you would compare what we are doing to the irresponsibility of the Obama Administration. If you had done your research, you would know that we _are_ taking input from the constituents, because it is important to everyone in President Trump’s government that the American people get the healthcare that they deserve.

 _Not bad, Spicer,_ he thought to himself, straightening his shoulders.

“But Mr. Spicer,” the reporter continued, furrowing her brows. “There are reports that the Republican establishment is frantically rewriting the bill in an effort to jam it through the House-”

“Those are fake reports, April. Now, if you’ll let me move on-”

“Our sources are reputable!” she cried, looking adamant. “Even FOX News has confirmed them!”

 Sean froze. He was backed into a corner- he could not denounce FOX News, the only mainstream news outlet that his beloved Donald watched, but neither could he admit that the AHCA was being rewritten for purely political gain.       

“You have your answer. I am moving _on,_ April.”

And so, he did.

He received a variety of other questions over the course of the press briefing, such as why maternity care was not a right (it’s not the government’s job to support your pregnancy, and no, he didn’t care if it was rape, God), why it appeared that the President had not read the AHCA (of course he has read it, the mainstream media should stop peddling lies about the man’s intelligence), and if the rumors about the disorganized state of the White House were true.

“Of course they’re not true!” he shouted (as loud as a press secretary could shout without being seen as unhinged). “You have accused the government of this since day _one,_ Marianne, and I have answered it again and again-"

She looked angrier than Donald Trump after being fact checked by a moderator. “But we have seen evidence crop up repeatedly, everything from the misinformed implementation plans to the White House leaks-”

 _Oh, she just went there_. “They are _fake_ leaks, Marianne, how many times must I repeat myself before you get it into your head! There are many people that wish to defame President Trump-”

But she cut him off in a rude display of journalistic perseverance, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yet the President just confirmed today, via Twitter, that the leaks were real. He expressed a desire to arrest those within his staff that were responsible-"

If this had been his first day in the briefing room, he might have faltered. He might have paused, with his mind racing, searching for any explanation to keep the façade afloat. He might have managed to stutter out a poor excuse for whatever point he had just been faced with.

But today, he was a different Sean Spicer. Older, wiser, and a newfound skill resting in his hands- the art of making shit up.

“I believe that the President was very clear about the fact that the leaks were real, but the news was fake-”

Marianne, in her insolence, cut him off yet again. “Mr. Spicer, you _just_ said that the leaks were fake-”

“Do not interrupt me,” he ordered, “it’s not my fault that you just can’t pay attention. I suppose selective hearing is the only way you could come up with such ridiculous headlines.”

A few journalists looked uncomfortable, Sean noticed one of them rub Marianne’s shoulder sympathetically. Sure, _he_ was the bad guy here. The press would never get it, would they?

“The leaks have been reported on in a very fake way, and therefore, whatever was in them doesn’t matter anyway. If you were _real news, Marianne,_ then you would understand.”

She scoffed. “Mr. Spicer-"

“Great, that’s all for today.” Sean sighed, turning away from his podium and walking towards the exit of the stage.  “I will see you all tomorrow, I’m making it One Question Friday. Yes, I like the sound of that,” he mused, half-sarcastic, letting an unsettlingly tense smile show on his face.

Sean ignored the resulting shudder from the Associated Press reporter seated closest to him. If he wanted to drift between an overworked kindergarten teacher persona and an emotionally repressed serial killer vibe, then that was his right as an American, as a free citizen of this great nation.

He heard a man shout that there was still another fifteen minutes left, but he ignored the voice, huffing to himself in annoyance. If he had to spend one more second with the media, he would explode so destructively that Donald would stop unnecessarily overfunding the nuclear triad.

He wished with all his nonexistent heart that he could seek respite from the misery of his job- from the disappointment that was his life. The roars of the press receded as he walked away, letting the sun set on yet another round in the boxing ring.

Sean was so lost in thought as he wandered through the empty hallway, he barely noticed the looming figure in front of him until he crashed into it. “Ouch!”

He drew back sputtering, blinking as the face of the man he had run into came into view. Sean was paralyzed with a frightening mix of emotions of which he could name just a few… he would recognize that bright orange skin characteristic of self-tanning gone wrong anywhere.

“Sorry, Sir.” He attempted to keep his eyes trained on Donald’s own, but it was like looking into the sun (which applied to both the blinding orange of the other man’s face, as well as the unsettling pierce of his squinty gaze). “I wasn’t paying attention.”

He prayed to the Lord above, hoping that Donald was in a good mood. Sean had no clue whether the President had just been watching the news (fuck it, he definitely was), or how much negative press he had seen so far today. If the man was too worked up, well… Melania was in New York, taking some well-deserved time off from being married to the embodiment of toxic masculinity. Donald needed someone to take out his frustration on.

Donald’s expression was unreadable as he looked Sean up and down, the usual frown on his face. “That much was obvious, Sean.”

The tension in the air was palpable, the hallway was empty but for the two of them, the silence filling the space between them in a thick, heavy way that their limited words never could.

Sean closed his eyes and counted to ten before attempting to walk past the President, but he was stopped in his tracks by a meaty hand gripping his wrist like a vice.

“Come with me,” Donald muttered. His voice was low and coarse, likely from screaming at his aides about how he won the electoral college by the biggest margin since Reagan.

Instead of pulling away, he crumbled under the authority in his voice, compelled to follow anything Donald told him to do. So, he followed.

Donald dragged him into the nearest office, locking the door behind them and pulling Sean to face him. “Did you see, Sean? The dishonest media won’t stop going on about how I have no idea what I’m doing, about how we’re not winning.”

_Fuck._

Donald leaned in close, completely forgoing the concept of personal space. Oddly enough… Sean liked it.

He had spent his life chasing one thing- not _authority,_ but to assist it. Sean had worked for numerous campaigns over the years, done all his degrees in certain aspects of government knowledge… none of it was enough to hold office. No, he yearned for those spots sheltered beneath men of power and influence, he wanted to be vital, useful. Never had he felt that urge more than when he had joined the Trump campaign, and never had he felt more compelled to please than when President-elect Trump himself had asked him to be his press secretary.

And here was Donald, in front of him, pressing their foreheads together, asking Sean to please him. Donald was the authority that he had always been seeking, subconsciously or not, since Sean could remember. Donald was the flame, and he was but a moth.

And for Donald, he would gladly burn. 

“I- I saw, Donald, I was just-”

“Sir,” he growled, shoving Sean back against the bookshelf that covered the wall. He felt the spines of the books that Donald would never be able to read dig into his back (as they were well above his reading level) as he met the other man’s gaze. “You’re gonna call me _Sir,_ Sean, and you’re never gonna forget that. Isn’t that right?’

Oh, God. “Yes, sir,” he breathed, trying to lean into Donald’s hands. Sean was so touch starved, he didn’t care how desperate he looked. He remembered the other times with Donald before this one- in the Oval Office and the Lincoln Bedroom, once even in the empty press briefing room. It was such a Donald thing to do, show up at the place of his misery and forge bliss.

Donald ripped Sean’s shirt open, tearing it off and throwing it to the floor. “I’m the fucking President,” he roared, letting his hands roam over Sean’s chest. “And they treat me like a joke! I know the nuclear codes, I could _blow up the world_.”

  
“Jesus,” Sean moaned, throwing his head back against the shelf. “Yes, Sir, you could.”

“LAW AND ORDER,” Donald yelled, seemingly for no reason at all, unbuttoning Sean’s slacks and pushing them to the ground. “I’m so sick of the failing New York Times trying to actually utilize the First Amendment!”

Sean nodded, still in shock from the pure display of authority in front of him. Yes, he was the embodiment of toxic masculinity. Sean, on the other hand… was very much “into that”.

“How dare they,” he squeaked.

“EXACTLY! Everyone knows that the only _real_ amendment is the SECOND ONE!” Donald bellowed, shoving an arm between Sean and the shelf to scrape his fingernails roughly down his bare back, letting his fingers rest at the base.

 “Of course, Sir. It’s America, after all.” It was next to impossible to focus on the words coming out of his mouth instead of the assault of sensations.

 “Well, Sean.” Donald’s breath was hot in his ear. “I’ll bet that lies aren’t the only thing you can pull out of your ass.”

 He let out a broken sob, looking up to meet Donald’s eyes. “No, Sir.”

“Maybe you’ll demonstrate for me sometime, huh?” Donald leered down at him with a sleazy smile. “Would you like that, Spicer?”

The President probably picked up on his wide eyes and slack expression, because he chuckled darkly. “What, you scared? Don’t be a pussy, or I’ll have to grab you.”

Sean wanted to point out that Donald was already grabbing him, but he didn’t want to argue. This was not the time to start any sort of discourse. Donald did not react well to opposition.

“What, nothing to say? Guess it’s time to bring out an old friend of yours, then.”

Sean froze at the words, mind racing with possibilities. What had Donald done this time? Had he ratted them out? He couldn’t have, he would lose his Evangelical base that didn’t care about almost every Evangelical value-

Donald reached out to the cabinet that stood against the side wall, unhooking the wide door and letting it swing outward. Sean leaned forward to look at what he had revealed- two stacks of paper.

…

_One week ago_

Sean stood behind his detested podium, facing the wrath of the thirsty journalists that were hell bent on being the ones to finally break him.

The questions were flying faster than it took for Wall Street to break the economy, and he was doing everything he could to defend ~~Paul Ryan’s~~ Donald Trump’s new healthcare bill.

“Look at the size,” he said, moving behind the stacks of paper conveniently set up next to him on the stage. One was substantially taller than the other. “This is the Democrats-” he gestured to the tall stack of paper, then moving his hand to touch the AHCA. “This is us.” The sound of clicking cameras faded into the background as he executed his brilliant “visual aids” plan. “I mean, you can’t get any clearer in terms of… this is government, this is not.”

Because, obviously, a national healthcare plan should have absolutely nothing to do with the government, that’s just silly. Big government was evil and meant that power was _taken away from the people,_ people who cared far more about living under a harmless bureaucracy than being able to actually obtain healthcare. Why couldn’t the tyrannical _Democrats_ see that the people of America preferred dying from lack of insurance coverage over financing the healthcare of sick, lazy, poor people with their tax dollars? It was truly a mystery.

Of course healthcare wasn't a human right, why should anyone in the free market expect to get some coward liberal participation trophy just for getting sick? It made so much more sense to ruin the lives of the ill and disabled by overwhelming them with unpayable medical bills and landing them in a lifetime of debt. 

Sean truly didn't understand the opposition to the perfect healthcare system the Administration was proposing. 

Maybe the subsidies were given out by age and not by income, but that was customary. Young people didn't even get sick, so it basically didn't matter. 

And sure, the Congressional Budget Office had predicted it would end up kicking 20 million people off of Medicaid, but screw the CBO. They were horrible at predicting things anyways.

Perhaps the coverage for many Americans would be slashed to the point where they would be struggling to stay healthy, but that was their problem. It was not the governments job to save anyone from their poor spending. 

And had the Republican Party failed to provide the economic incentive for remaining on healthcare, the most crucial aspect of a working healthcare plan? Sure, but they would would work it out. Sometime. 

                      …

_Now_

Sean looked at Donald, who was merely smirking at him- all rumpled clothes and smugness- the picture of an Orange Fascist.

“Look, I need to have a word with you about your little- paper stack speech.”

Sean could hear his own breathing pick up, his head spinning at the sudden change in subject. The confusion threatened to overwhelm him. Why had Donald brought the paper here? Had he planned this out, like some sort of sadist? Was Sean really worth more thought than his campaign policies?

“Sir…?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Donald began, saying the word with the unnecessary drawl he reserved for denying facts, “you defended my tremendous healthcare plan, which is fantastic. But a smaller size? Never a reason for something to be better.”

“I… I see.”

“See, Little Marco once told me that if my hands were small, something else must be small.” Donald pulled his suit jacket off of his shoulders and draped it over the nearby desk chair.  He leaned in again, pressing his lips to Sean’s ear. “There’s no problem, I assure you.”

Sean’s breath hitched at the words, remembering about how the President had bragged about the size of his dick on national television, whilst children and scandalized parents looked on in disbelief. Yes, his Donald was about as presidential as rat poison, but he would never ask him to change.

The godless liberals could do _that_.

Sean whimpered as Donald backed away, reaching out to him, but to no avail.

“Could you do something for me?” Donald murmured, jerking his head in the direction of the Affordable Care Act.

“Of course, Sir,” Sean sputtered, straightening his back. He was on edge, completely vulnerable to Donald’s whims. He had no clue what was coming next (Donald, in all likelihood).

“See that stack of paper? See that stack of _government?_ ”

Sean nodded, fixing his eyes on the tantalizing pile. Government was authority, government was power, government would keep him safe if only he was good enough-

“I want you to walk over there, and rub your skin against the side. As much as you can.” Donald’s voice was somehow rougher, like he had not just been yelling about the electoral college earlier, but how three million illegal immigrants voted in the election, as well.

Before he knew it, Sean was standing with his chest pressed up against the stack of paper, hissing as the edges dug lightly into his tender skin. “Please,” he gasped. He didn’t even know what he was begging for.

“Just move, Spicer,” came Donald’s voice. Sean heard the sound of Donald unzipping his own trousers, unfortunately, the President was out of his field of vision when he was pressed against the paper like this.

He could never say no to Donald.

Sean swayed at a steady pace, allowing the edges of the pages to drag against his skin, pleasure and pain mixing together as _government_ bore down upon him. The sensation was like that of another’s power; a strength that worked both for and against him, that showed him his place in the world. Not so special as to occupy the spotlight, not so worthless as to be unknown- but just important enough to enjoy the reward and wrath of the influence above him, cocooning him tight.

“Goddammit, Sean,” Donald panted from behind. “One day, I’m gonna fuck you harder than I’ve fucked the country.”

He would hold the President to that, of course.

He heard Donald’s grunts and moans from behind him, but blocked out the noises, focusing entirely on the sensation of the paper slicing his skin, on the pain and perfection of succumbing to the heavy hand of authority.

…

Yes, Donald was fire, and Sean was the conscious prey, the wandering moth so lost it did not pay mind to the warnings that spread about the world’s dangers. And despite Sean knowing full well that he was hurtling towards a future of singed wings and unimaginable pain, of legacies lost and careers cut off, he knew it was better to have Donald and lose him than to never have Donald at all. There were some that would call him insane for the way Donald made him feel, like he had finally found his place in the chaotic world that had thrown him around as carelessly as the Trump Administration dismissed the largest threat to the continued existence of human life on Earth. However, Sean knew that he would have no regrets, he felt it, somewhere deep in his fabled soul.

For Donald J. Trump, he would gladly burn.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I deeply apologize for everything you just read. I feel obligated to do that. It’s supposed to be a joke, you know? This mess of words is merely the catharsis necessary to continue my façade of sanity amidst this chaotic reality show of a political atmosphere, so I hope it’s understandable. 
> 
> I like to think that as long as somewhere, in a dark corner of the internet, the Trump Administration is dragged angrily and without finesse in the most ridiculous manner, that the universe is just a tiny step closer to balance. 
> 
> What is freedom of speech if you can’t write crack fiction about incompetent politicians, am I right?
> 
> Update: Rest in peace to the AHCA/BCRA and Sean Spicer; to the healthcare bill that failed five times and the press secretary that lasted five months longer than everyone thought he would.


End file.
